Blythe Gifford is known for medieval tales of characters born on
the wrong side of the royal blanket. Now, for the first
time, she sets a story on the Scottish Borders, where the rules
of chivalry don’t always apply…

Royal Rogue
He is the bastard son of an English prince and a Scotswoman. A
rebel without a country, he has darkness in his soul.

Innocent Lady:
Daughter of a Scottish border lord, she can recite the laws of
chivalry, and knows this man has broken every one. But
she’s gripped by desire for him'—could he be the one to unleash
the dangerous urges she's hidden until now?

Morning's warmth had ebbed, and a chilly mist huddled in the
valley and obscured the hills, reminding her of the dangers
that lurked all around. The Inglis army might be far away, but the Inglis
border was not.
That was her last thought before he rose out of the fog, a golden man on a black horse, like a
spirit emerging from the mist.
A man without a banner.
A man without allegiance.
The hound barked, once, then growled, as if cowed.
The man's eyes grabbed hers.
Blue they were, shading as a sky does in summer from pale to deepest azure.
And behind the blue, something hot, like the sun.
Like fire.
Any words she might have said stuck in her throat.
Next to her, Euphemia gasped, then giggled.
“Where are you going good sir?”
Clare glared at her. The girl was hopeless. They'd be lucky to get her married before she was
with child.
“Anywhere that will have me.” He answered Euphemia, but his eyes touched Clare.
Her cheeks burned.
Beside her, young Angus drew his dagger, the only weapon he was allowed. “I
will defend the ladies.”
“I'm sure you will.” The stranger's smile, slow, insolent, was at odds
with the intensity in his eyes. “That's a handsome dirk and I'm sure you could wield it well against me, but I would ask that you not to harm my
horse.”
His tone was oddly gentle. Where was his own squire? “Who's with you?”
“No one.” “A dangerous practice.” Did he lie? An army could hide behind him in this mist.
Her fault. She had ridden out alone and unarmed and put them all at risk.
“Don't you know Edward's army still rides?”
He frowned. “Do they?”
His accent confused her. It held the burr of the land closer to the sea, but
there was something else about it, difficult to place. Yet over the hill, in the next valley, each family's
speech was different. He might be a Robson from the other side of the hill,
scouting for one last raid before the spring, or loyal to
one of the Teviotdale men who had thrown their lot with
Edward.
“You're not an Inglisman, are you?”
“I have blood as Scots as yours.”
“And how do you know how Scots my blood is?”
“By the way you asked the question.”
Did her speech sound so provincial to Alain? She winced. She wanted to impress the visiting French knight, not
embarrass him. “What's your name, Scotsman?”
“Gavin.” He paused. “Gavin Fitzjohn.”
Some John's bastard, then. Even a bastard bore his father's arms, but this man
carried no clue to his birth. No device on his shield, no surcoat. Just that unkempt armor that, without a squire's
care, had darkened with rust spots.
No arms, no squire. Not of birth noble enough for true knighthood then.
“Are you a renegade?” On her wrist, Wee One bated, wings flapping wildly. Clare touched her fingers to the bird's soft breast
feathers, seeking to calm them both.
His slow smile never wavered. “Just a tired and hungry man who needs a friendly
bed.” His eyes traveled over her, as if he were wondering how friendly her
bed might be.
“Well, you'll not find one with us.”
“I didn't ask. Yet.”
Did he think she'd offered to be his bedmate? She should not be talking to such a man at all. “Well, if you do, I'll say you nae.”
“I don't ask before I know whether I'm speaking to a friend or an enemy.”
“And I don't answer before I know the same.” Her voice had a wobble she had not intended.
“Are you a woman with enemies?”
“Three kings claim this land. We have more enemies than friends.”
“Aye,” he said, nodding, a frown carving lines in his face. He flexed his hand as if it itched to reach for his
sword. “Who are yours?”
Her eyes clashed with his. She should have asked him first. Where was his loyalty? To the Balliol pretender, recently dethroned?
To David the Bruce still held for ransom by the
Inglis Edward? Perhaps he had lied about his blood and was Edward's man
himself.
Next to her, the young girl sighed. “This is Mistress Clare and I'm Euphemia and I have
nay enemies.”
“Euphemia!” Was she batting her lashes? Yes, she was. “Do you want us to be killed?”
“He wouldn't do that. A knight is sworn to protect ladies, aren't you?”
She fluttered her eyelashes at him, then turned to
Clare. “Don't treat him as an unfriend.”
“If I do, it's because I have a brain in my head.”
If she kicked the horse into a gallop, could she outrun the
man? Not with
Angus and Euphemia in tow and Wee One on her wrist.
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He looks like a dangerous ruffian, not a knight.
He wears no markings and he's wearing dirty armor
with rust spots!” The man, if he knew the maxims of chivalry, cared
little for them.
Euphemia shrugged and turned to the man. “You're not dangerous and dirty, are you?”
Something darkened his face before a smile waved it away. “Well, that may depend on how you mean the words, but
I'd say Mistress Clare has a gift for judging character.”

Such was the story
of John of Eltham, brother of King Edward III of England. He was a man of great promise, who committed bad acts and achieved
great victories, died unmarried at twenty, was slandered after, and has
since been forgotten.

I discovered him in
writing HIS BORDER BRIDE. Because I feature characters born on the wrong side of the royal blanket,
I needed a plausible parent for my hero.
In researching the war between England and Scotland in the early 14th
century, I discovered that John played an instrumental military role in
the conflict. In fact, he
spent many months in Scotland, certainly long enough to father a son.

He was four
years younger than his brother the king and born in the castle of
Eltham, hence his moniker.
He was named Earl of Cornwall at the age of 12, the last son
of a king to die an earl instead of a duke.
Caught in the throes of the war between his father, Edward
II, and mother Isabella, his growing years were turbulent.
He was passed between his parents and even held in the Tower
of London for a time before his brother, at age 17, led a coup
against his mother and her lover and assumed the power that went
with his kingly title of Edward III.

Information on
John is scant, but what we do know suggests he was highly competent,
and highly trusted by Edward.

He was named
“Guardian of the Realm” when Edward III was out of the country; was
asked to open Parliament in Edward’s absence, and was named Warden
of the northern Marches, which gave him virtual autonomy in that
portion of England.

At 17, he was
a key commander in the Battle of Halidon Hill, a devastating defeat
for the Scots. Later, he
commanded an army in the southwest of Scotland that put down
resistance to Edward Bailliol, the Scots king supported by his
brother.

But all these
“heroic” acts were recorded by historians on the southern side of
the border. The Scottish
saw him differently. So
differently, in fact, that historian Tom Beaumont James writes that
the tale of his death “challenges the distinction between history
and story.”

To
the Scots, he was a ruthless destroyer, who, among other crimes,
burned the beautiful Lesmahagow Abbey when it was filled with people
who had sought sanctuary from the wrath of the English troops.
As Scottish chronicler tells
it, this violation of the sacred laws of sanctuary so enraged King
Edward that he killed his own brother in fury.

A tragic tale.
One that my hero was told about his father.
One that made him fear he had inherited the same bad blood.

One that, as
near as we can now tell, was not true.

John did die,
suddenly, at age 20, probably from a fever.
Edward buried his brother with all honors in a beautiful tomb
in Westminster Abbey and had masses said for his soul regularly,
hardly the act of a man who had killed his brother.

And there was
one other fact about John of Eltham, Earl of Cornwall, that peaked
my romantic imagination.
Half a dozen brides had been proposed for him, including daughters
of the king of France and of the king of Castile and Leon, but he
never married and died without “legitimate issue.”

Ah!
But what about illegitimate issue?
History records none, so I was free to create one:
a man who must face the terrible truth about his past and
learn to make peace with it.

A small
tragedy of history that I tried to make right.

Note: This
piece originally ran on unusualhistoricals.blogspot.com on August
23, 2010. It has been
corrected to note that Edward III’s “coup” was against his appointed
regent, not his father.

Welcome Blythe! HIS BORDER
BRIDE is your fifth book set in the fourteenth century, but the
first you've set in Scotland. What caused you to cross the border?

A combination of creative and marketing reasons. Confession
time: Scotland has never captured my imagination the way it does for
so many, yet I know it is an auto-buy for many readers. Reason
enough for an author to think seriously about a Scots story, but I
refused to choose a setting strictly for mercenary reasons. But my
hero in my last book, IN The MASTER’S BED, was from the Borders of
northern England. As I learned his history, I became increasingly
intrigued by this 'third country,' where the Scots on one side of
the line and the 'Inglis' on the other had more in common with each
other than either did with the rest of their countrymen. This was a
Scotland that called to me, so I followed the muse across the
border.

What sparked
this specific story? Was it a character? An historical event? A
scene you just couldn't get out of your head?

I wanted
to write a real 'bad boy' hero. Since all my books have featured a
character born on the wrong side of the [English] royal blanket, I
wanted him to be the son of a really hated member of the royal
family. I discovered that John of Eltham, a younger brother of
Edward III, spent several months commanding the English troops in a
Scottish invasion. He was rumored to have burned a church filled
with people who had sought sanctuary there. I thought his son would
be well and truly hated on the Scots side of the border, so that was
my hero's origin.

Did
you have to do any major research for this book? Was it an easy
transition?

Yes to the research. Not at all to the
easy! It was much more difficult than I anticipated. Not the dates
and places, but to learn the Scots mindset. I compare it to learning
to write left-handed. I'm a life-long Anglophile, so I was very
comfortable with that world view. I didn't know what I didn't know
until I got into the story and had to learn the 'back story,' if you
will, of a whole country! During this period, and for several
hundred years to follow, Scotland was more closely allied with
France than with England. That made a difference in their court,
their culture, their law – and that's not to mention the Celtic
echoes. I'm very grateful to the 'Write Scottish Romance' yahoo
group of writers who walked me through so much of it.

So how do you feel about
Scotland now? Did you learn to love it?

Actually,
yes, I did. The Scots, particularly on the Border, are a stubborn,
independent, hard-headed, ornery, freedom loving lot. My kind of
folks! In fact, my next book will be set on the Scottish border,
too.

What do you like
least about this period?

I'm very familiar with the
14th century by now, so again it was the location, not the era that
challenged me. In my last few books, I'd incorporated various
trappings of educated royalty: art, music, dance, university
studies. Life was rough on the Scots Borders. Art and 'culture' were
scarce. But that actually lead me to some character development, as
my heroine longed for the kind of culture and comfort that she would
find, she thought, by marrying a French knight. (Not the
hero!)

Did you stumble
across anything really interesting that you didn't already know?

I had no idea how pervasive falconry was until I
started studying it. Falconry, or hawking, is the sport of hunting
with trained birds of prey. Its origins are ancient and despite
having written four medieval romances, I had not realized that
between the 12th and the 17th centuries, virtually every noble and
even some non-noblemen would have hunted as a matter of course.The sport and the birds became a strong theme in the book, symbolic
both of her emotional state and of the developing relationship. And
while I began by feeling quite clever for using it as a simile for
the love story, I quickly discovered I was not the first to think of
it. Much of the art of the period uses the falcon in just this
contest. Several centuries later, Shakespeare, in 'The Taming of the
Shrew' uses the falconer/falcon analogy for Petruchio and Kate's
battle of wills. My story is not a 'taming of the shrew' premise,
but it made me feel better to know I had chosen a metaphor that
indeed applied to love, as well as sport.

Anything that constrained you
or that you had to plot carefully around?

The life
cycle of the falcon! Because it was such a thematic arc for the
story, I had to know when falcons mated, how long it took for the
eggs to hatch, when the chicks first flew and how they were trained
to hunt with humans---that cycle set the framework for the story.
(The illustration of hawking here dates from the same era as my
story.)

Any gaffs or mea
culpas you want to fess up to before readers get their hands on the
book? I know I always seem to find one after the book has gone to
press. *sigh*

Somehow, my idea of Scotland included
sprinkling nay and nae randomly throughout the text. (Well, not
randomly. I thought I knew what I was doing.) But when the copy
editor questioned my usage and my editor pointed out the confusion,
I had an eleventh hour fire drill to go through the manuscript and
correct or change my various and inconsistent usage. (Please don't
email to tell me I missed one!)